Cry In The Darkness
by johnsarmylady
Summary: He had looked out for his little brother all his life, and in all his life Mycroft had never panicked - until tonight. Angsty one-shot. Rated T for mentions of drug use.


**This can be read stand alone, or as a follow up to Keeping A Promise.  
Disclaimer: I don't own or profit, just borrow from time to time.**

Mycroft never panicked.

He was every inch his father's son, cool, collected, always knowing the right thing to say or do. Yes, he was his father's son in every way but one.

Father had been proud of his son and heir, named him after the founder of the Holmes family – Mycroft; it was a good name, a strong name.

From the day he was born his life had been mapped out for him, the best schools, university, then on to take his place in the British government, to equal, or maybe even outstrip any previous Holmes in public service.

And for the first nine years of his life, that plan was adhered to, rigidly. Life was good, and Mycroft was happy, Father was happy, Mummy too, although she appeared after a while to be not quite so happy, and (Mycroft thought, with all his nine year old wisdom) she started comfort eating, slowly and steadily putting on weight.

The arrival on the scene of a scrawny, bawling collection of skin, bone and black curls changed life at home forever, though not always for the better.

Mycroft was besotted by his baby brother – he'd always hated being an only child, and he took every chance to befriend this new arrival, helping nanny at bath-time, sitting by his crib and reading him stories from his favourite books.

Yes, Mycroft was besotted, but Mummy couldn't wait to hand him over to the hired help, after fifteen minutes of sufferance and holding the squalling infant, he was handed back and taken from the room. Mycroft wondered at his new sibling's attitude – he never cried when held by his older brother – but that was not the worst of it.

Father just ignored his younger son. It was as if the boy was invisible. Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock realised at first, they had each other, and as the boys grew older, Mycroft would teach Sherlock the things he had learned at school, read to him, play pirates with him (and relishing the fact that as the 'Big Bad Government Man' he was captured and kept in the hold with a few 'stolen' books while Captain Sherlock ran the ship) and stay with him when he was frightened, stay with him until he fell asleep.

When Mycroft left for University Sherlock sobbed. There would be no more weekend passes home, no more coming to collect him from school on his birthday when he thought everyone had forgotten, and Mycroft hated that he couldn't make the promise Sherlock needed to hear – that he would come home if ever his little brother needed him.

As each successive term ended, and Mycroft came home to praise and adulation from their Father, Sherlock was increasingly quiet, distant and unresponsive. Over dinner he would hear the complaints about the younger boy's behaviour how the school only let him stay because of the extortionate amount of money they had been promised to do so.

In time he graduated, Mummy and Father were there to see his moment of triumph, but as they met at the ceremony's end, and he looked for his beloved younger brother, he learned just how far his parents had pushed the young boy away. Not only a boarder at his school, they paid even more for him to remain there throughout the holidays – 'much the best thing for him' Father had said dismissively, Mummy had just nodded and smiled proudly at her capped and gowned eldest son.

Several times Mycroft had tried to bridge the gap, visited the school, only to be told that Sherlock was busy studying and didn't want to be disturbed, but he was nothing if not determined. Time and time again he tried, until the day when he asked to see his brother but was escorted instead to the Principal's rooms.

With sinking heart, he learned that his brother had been dabbling in illegal substances, and while cigarettes, and even a little marijuana, can be ignored on occasion, turning up to classes high on amphetamines and telling his tutor's life story to the whole class was totally unacceptable. Sherlock was being sent home for the remainder of the term, and as the school handed responsibility for the disgraced boy to him Mycroft realised it would fall to him to explain this fiasco to Father.

That was the last time Father ever hit Sherlock. He had watched as the library door closed behind them, heard Father's dulcet tones castigating the young man, cruelly disparaging his attempts to make his mark in the world of science. Sitting in the room across the hall he heard the ever present cane connect with his brother, but just the once this time – there was a cry, the sound of the cane swishing again, and horrified Mycroft heard Father cry out as this time he was the recipient of the blow.

Sherlock left the house, never to return. Somehow he managed to make his way to University, but it didn't last. The years of solitude, of being ignored and pushed away had made him unsociable and difficult to get on with, and he dropped out and disappeared before the end of his second year.

As he worked his way up the hierarchy of Whitehall, he kept his eye on his brother, and made it known in certain places that his was the number to be called if his brother was found to be in difficulties that he couldn't extricate himself from – this had happened once or twice, and Sherlock had never been grateful for the help, but underneath Mycroft was still striving to give Sherlock everything Father and Mummy had denied him.

Mycroft never panicked.

Until this evening when he got the call from the newly promoted Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Lestrade had arrested Sherlock several times for possession, or for being high and causing a public nuisance. This evening had been different, this call much worse.

Sherlock had been found lying in a pool of his own vomit, a dirty tourniquet around his arm, the needle still in place in the prominent vein on his inner elbow. They were taking him, the detective had said, to St Thomas' hospital, but it didn't look good, and Mycroft should try to get there quickly. The message was clear. Even if the words were not said aloud. Sherlock was not expected to live.

So here he sat, his heart beating in rhythm with the monitors attached to his brother's chest, his eyes, adjusted to the half-light in the room, watching the slow rise and fall of his emaciated chest, his hand holding tightly to the slender, motionless hand that rested on the bed.

No, Mycroft Holmes never panicked, but tonight, in the darkness, he wept for the bright inquisitive child that grew to be so lonely, so desperate, that he chose to make a friend of a killer – cocaine.


End file.
